


A Man's Heart

by glitteringvoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22835173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringvoid/pseuds/glitteringvoid
Summary: “Thank you so much for this dinner invitation! I knew it was only a matter of time, with all this chemistry between us. I'm looking forward to spending more time with you!” Ron somehow manages to turn his groan into a cough at the last second, prompting MacDonald to slap him on the back and look concerned. Perfect, Ron reminds himself, forcing a smile and not pushing him away as he wants to.Ron didn’t have the heart to tell MacDonald he is nothing more than a prop to show his cheating boyfriend what it feels like. Ron should have thought of something better than wanting to get to know him. This will be as much torture for him as it will be for Draco.Although, maybe he can get rid of MacDonald when it turns out there is an angry Draco instead of dinner waiting for him. Maybe Draco will throw him out when he comes to all the wrong conclusions Ron deliberately leads him to.Put like that, his plan is rather cruel.Then again, so is actually cheating and thinking him too dumb to notice.Yes, Draco deserves much worse this. Before he changes his mind, Ron opens the door for MacDonald.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley, Ron Weasley/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 82
Collections: Ron/Draco Fest - Better Together





	A Man's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> First of, dear reeby10, I loved your prompt immediately! I also got very excited, subsequently only skimmed your squicks (which turned out to be a mistake) and dove into plotting. I'm very sorry about the rather central role infidelity ended up playing. If it helps, I promise there is no actual infidelity happening and everything will be resolved at the end.
> 
> Next, thank you fangqueen for being a wonderful mod for this amazing fest!
> 
> Another big thank you at Lynn, for not only letting me ramble on about this while but also helping me figure out a solution every time I stumbled upon a complication in plot or characterisation (and believe me, there were many). I honestly don't think this would be half as good without you.
> 
> Finally, thank you Bri for beta-reading this so quickly despite having so much of your own to work on and for your stunningly positive feedback. You really helped me see this as a finished product instead of a jumbled mess of ideas I had for this fic.

Coming home to an empty flat is a strange thing. Ron isn’t used to it, the Burrow always overflowing with people, his shared flat with Harry and Hermione a sanctuary they spent most of their time, and nowadays Draco’s life as a writer means he works from home. Usually someone is already there, not necessarily waiting for him, but nevertheless filling the walls with life.  
  
Not today though.  
  
Any other day, Ron might have enjoyed the chance; however ridiculous it seems that a grown man and respected Auror shows child-like excitement at the prospect of being home alone.  
  
But this isn’t any other day. In fact, this is a Day.  
  
Just this morning, things had been looking well. They had finally captured their suspect (all but confirmed offender) only for the bastard to deny everything, with a smug smile Ron desperately wants to punch into something more cooperative. They had evidence, damning evidence – that piece of shit would be behind bars already, were it not for his utterly incompetent partner. The man can’t even do one thing, one tiny thing. Now he has jeopardised the entire case. If they don’t find new evidence or get a confession, and soon at that, they have to let him go.  
  
And as if that isn’t enough to ruin anyone's day, Ron also got an enormous pile of tedious paperwork to wade through.  
  
The last thing Ron wants is an empty flat.  
  
He wants his boyfriend, wants Draco to hold him and mess with his hair, to let him rant and offer his own comments on the shit-show of a day, before coming up with preposterous ideas on how to miracle all his problems away. They never fail to make Ron laugh and they always end with the both of them running away together, where no one can find and bother them ever again.  
  
But Draco isn’t here. So instead Ron is still standing right in front of the floo, looking like an idiot and with no idea what to do next.  
  
What exactly is he supposed to do with his foul mood if not let Draco take it away?  
  
He doesn’t know, so he throws his things onto the couch, watches with satisfaction as they land badly and fall down. Draco won’t like that. But then, Draco isn’t here so he doesn’t get a say. (Ron is very aware this is childish, thank you very much.)  
  
Seeing his things on the ground though, unmoving and the short-lived thrill gone, the satisfaction feels hallow. Ron gives up. He will make some dinner, probably burn it because why should things start getting better now, and go to bed early. A miserable plan for a miserable day. Hopefully, a good night’s sleep will make things better (his hopes aren't that high).  
  
Drifting towards the kitchen, Ron tries to think of something to cook not even this day could screw up. Something simple, as few steps as possible to minimise the risk, maybe — the fridge is empty. Draco hasn’t been buying groceries then. Despite Ron making sure to remind of it this morning. Great. Who would have thought his day could get even worse?  
  
It wouldn’t be more than a mild annoyance usually, something to tease and complain about and to remind Draco of when Ron is the one forgetting something. He doesn’t mind ordering take-away and not having to cook. Although it has been happening increasingly often lately, food disappearing mysteriously fast and Draco’s mind more scattered than normal, even for him.  
  
Ron worries sometimes, contemplates bringing it up, but right now he doesn’t. Right now he glares into the empty fridge taunting him, before slamming the door shut. Another hollow victory.  
  
With a sigh, Ron fishes out his wand to order some pizza. That might be best anyway, it’s fast and the chances that he does something wrong are even less than on scrambled eggs.  
  
The pizza arrived before Draco did, Ron’s hands and face covered in grease as he hears cursing from the floo. Draco must have stumbled over his things that fell on the ground, which Ron didn't expect but appreciated no less for it. Adding that to the pizza, Ron feels marginally better.  
  
“If you wanted pizza as well, you are too late.” He eats the last slice, making sure Draco watches him happily munch on what could have been his piece.  
  
“That’s fine, I already ate.” Ron stills, doesn’t even swallow. Draco already ate?  
  
The thing is, Draco has some worrisome eating habits. First, he doesn’t like to eat alone. Unless someone eats with him, he just doesn’t eat at all. Second, often times he doesn’t remember that he should eat, going without food for far too long even with someone there who could share his meal if he is not reminded.  
  
Draco is also in an awfully cheery mood, floating around the kitchen and humming.  
  
All of this only leads to one conclusion: Draco willingly went out to eat with someone.  
  
Which is fine. Good for him. Only … Draco usually invites Ron along when he is meeting someone, or tells him he won’t be there at least. But he didn’t tell him, not one word.  
  
As soon as the thought enters his mind, Ron feels guilty about it.  
  
He is being ridiculous. Draco doesn’t have to tell him how he spends his time and he could have simply forgotten, or maybe it was one of these spontaneous things Draco hates. Ron is overreacting and probably behaving like a prick. He really shouldn't take out his bad mood on Draco.  
  
“So, where have you been?” It sounds more accusing than intended and Ron would have corrected himself, if not for the flicker of a grimace over Draco’s face. Guilt. It’s plain to see, in the bitten lip, the glance away — Draco feels guilty.  
  
“Oh you know, wandering around, clearing my head. I couldn’t sit here and stare at the same blank page anymore.” The chuckle sounds forced. Draco is definitely lying. Badly, too. Draco doesn't take walks when he is confronted with this particular problem. No, Draco does the pretentious thing and conjures up some stars (all constellations important to him, in some way) to wistfully gaze at. Ron loves that about him. Now the image is mocking him.  
  
Because, apparently, a crappy day can always get worse.  
  
Ron should have gone to bed the minute he realised his day wasn’t going to get better. Then he wouldn’t be standing here, caught between starting what will most certainly explode into an ugly argument about trust and possessiveness (they’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime) or silencing the voice in him, screaming to be heard and demanding answers, wanting a fight because his day has been shit and Draco lied right into his face — why shouldn’t he get to yell a little and let off —  
  
“That bad a day, was it? Do you want to talk about it?” Draco has the gall to sound like he actually cares, like it’s not far too late by now.  
  
“No, I bloody well don’t want to talk about it!” The vindication of seeing Draco flinch away is short-lived. Just ten minutes ago, there was nothing Ron wanted more than Draco with him, wanting to burrow his face in is neck and hold him close, hiding from the world for a while.  
  
No chance of that happening anymore, might as well lean into the opposite. The voice inside him crows in victory.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question, don’t think I believed your pathetic lie.” Draco pales, the righteous anger replaced by something else, something Ron doesn’t want to think about.  
  
If Draco wanted his emotions to be considered he should finally learn to open his mouth and speak them. Ron can’t keep interpreting twitches of his brow and be expected to reach the correct conclusion (he has become rather good at it actually, quite enjoying knowing Draco this intimately — but along with the hypocrisy he discards it as irrelevant).  
  
“It wasn’t a lie! I was —” Ron doesn’t want to hear it. This isn’t the furious screaming he wanted, but is instead quickly turning into a deep and emotional discussion Ron is in no condition to deal with, tired and angry and unprepared.  
  
“Don’t bother, if you come up with something I can actually believe you can tell me about it tomorrow. I’m going to bed.” As he should have done hours ago, maybe he should have just stayed there this morning.  
  
“Don’t you dare leave like that! You can’t —” Ron ignores him.  
  
“Since when are you such a coward, Weasley?” He stops dead in his tracks, everything coming to a halt. It has been quite a while since Draco spoke to him, to anyone, like that; the sneer in his voice carried by imagined superiority.  
  
Ron wants to punch the bastard, beat the old insecurities back down and — Draco’s saccharine sweet voice interrupts his thoughts.  
  
“Thank you for finally listening to me. How very kind. Can we talk about this like adults now or do you insist on throwing a tantrum?” The sneer is gone as quick as it came, and only the Draco Ron knows remains, his boyfriend. It’s unsettling how quickly Draco can call on that attitude, how easily he falls back into the person he used to be. It can’t have been buried deep, can’t have been gone.  
  
Ron decides not to think about it, not right now.  
  
“I’m the one behaving like a child? You couldn’t be bothered to buy groceries, you are the one keeping secrets, you are gone all the time!” Yelling feels good, letting the wrath dance for him, watching Draco freeze up, cold mask falling into place. This is exactly what Ron needs.  
  
“What are you implying?” Draco is skilled at hiding it, but what Ron said hit him, hurt him. His voice is higher, strained to keep it from trembling and void of emotion. Good. That way he will fight back, won’t just stand there.  
  
Ron smirks down at him, watches him flinch, crowds him against the wall. He dreamed of doing that back in Hogwarts, shut him up, make him regret his words, lose that perfect composure.  
  
“I thought you are clever, shouldn’t you be able to work it out?” Draco doesn’t say anything, stares at him, lips pursed as if keeping everything in, his words and feelings, his reaction. Ron wants it all.  
  
“I think you haven’t changed at all. Still a lying snake, picking whoever would reflect best on you, now that the entire world looks down on you and you have no money to pay them for false smiles anymore. You picked whoever would save your tarnished reputation and sneaked your way into my life, enjoying the advantages it brought you.  
  
“But that isn’t enough for you, is it? Greedy and vain, one man could never satisfy you.”  
  
Something in Draco’s face breaks, splitting the empty mask wide open. Victory is a heady feeling, flooding Ron and making him grin widely.  
  
“Oh darling, did it never cross your little head that maybe just you aren’t enough to satisfy me? Did it never occur to you that I merely settled for you, waiting for someone better to come along? An actual hero, someone with money and influence and less of these appalling freckles, someone like Harry Potter.” The sneer is back, ugly and twisted and so horrifyingly at home on Draco’s face.  
  
Looking at Draco now, his words echoing in his head, Ron doesn’t find a trace of the man he fell in love with. There is nothing but cruelty, the spitting image of his father, looking down at Ron with his nose high in the air.  
  
It isn’t fair, that he has this much control over Ron, know exactly which buttons to press to hurt. Ron trusted Draco with his darkest secrets, look at what it got him.  
  
At least he isn’t the only one who made dark confessions. “Your father would be proud.”  
  
Ron watches the mask crumple, horror blooming over his face. This is almost as satisfying as throwing a punch, better even because it was Draco who taught him that sometimes words are more powerful than fists. Evidently, he was right.

* * *

Ron grew used to waking up to Draco wrapped around him, unable to move in fear of waking him as well. And why should he even want to move, when everything that matters was right there, sleeping peacefully in his arms? Of course, eventually Ron does have to move, inevitably waking him up and using the chance to drop a kiss on his sleepy face and wish him a good day. It has become their ritual, one of the ways they quietly express their love.  
  
But this morning Ron wakes alone, Draco as far away as the bed allows and the space between them cold. Draco wouldn’t be here at all, were they not both too stubborn to back down and concede to sleeping on the couch.  
  
Going to bed has never been this tense, full of glares and hurt they refused to acknowledge. They slept like this, next to each other and yet miles apart. Ron seldom slept so badly.  
  
Ron doesn’t wake Draco, doesn’t kiss him goodbye, pretends he doesn’t miss it as he closes the door behind himself.  
  
They have fought before, of course; about stupid things and serious issues, about the dishes and Draco’s acceptance in his family. They had loud screaming matches, when neither listened and both just yelled, and they had hurt silences, waiting until one of them caves.  
  
Things never felt this precarious, this fragile. One wrong step might be the end for them, break them to the point beyond healing.  
  
Ron doesn’t even know what they were fighting about. It should have been easily shrugged off as him overreacting and taking out his irritation on the most convenient subject, he could buy some flowers and take Draco out to dinner to one of these overpriced restaurants he likes, grovel a little (or a lot, depending on Draco's mood) and things could be fine again.  
  
It’s not one of those instances. Because whatever else yesterday might have brought, it made him realise something. Draco is keeping secrets.  
  
He is also still a vicious snake, not afraid of striking where it hurts most. Ron decides not to focus on that part though, it’s far too early to face those particular demons. Investigating this secret is more promising.  
  
Ron listened to enough teenage-dating-drama (Harry’s, his siblings, his own — he has all the experience one could possibly have) to know that secrets don’t necessarily equal terrible. Draco could be planning something nice, keep it from Ron to surprise him. He doesn’t have to be cheating.  
  
There are a myriad different explanations for evenings spend away, for meals no longer eaten with him, for tight-lipped secrecy. And it’s not like Draco makes any sense at the best of situations, looking for a logical solution to all this could be the wrong thing completely. There are a million things Ron could have stumbled upon, a myriad of reasons for Draco's secrecy.  
  
And yet, with the way Draco reacted, Ron can’t help but think of more sinister motives for his sneaking around.  
  
The doubt is sown, sprouting roots deep into his heart and settling in.

* * *

“I hear you have been terrorising interns all day. Did your ferret spit in your tea or something?” Ron glares at Harry, leaning against his door and laughing at his own joke. It’s true, all of it, so he really is in no mood for Harry’s teasing. Although, if he behaved badly enough for people to call Harry to come and handle him, Ron probably should rethink his behaviour. He noticed that he was a little short in his answers, but the only other time anyone thought Harry’s interference necessary was back when he had just broken up with Hermione (he had made someone cry at that point. Not exactly the proudest point of his career).  
  
Harry being here could be considered a sure sign that it’s time to go home and yell at the real reason of his anger.  
  
“'Or something' sounds about right. Now I think I should go home and deal with it.” Whatever that entails. Ron has no idea what he is going to do. The day working has not brought as much distance as he hoped. He doesn’t know how to feel about their situation more than he did this morning, still hurt and angry but wanting to fix this. Never an easy task on its own but twice as difficult when Draco is involved.  
  
“Oh no, you don’t.” Harry catches him before he can do so much as grab his coat, guiding him out of his office and holding firmly on to his arm. Ron doesn’t protest; whatever Harry has in mind, it’s sure to beat what would only turn into a repeat performance of yesterday.  
  
Ron lets himself be dragged out of the building, glaring at everyone who dares to look at them and tries his best not to look like a man being led away to drown his sorrows in a pint. It’s a very distinctive look, not something Ron really wants associated with himself.  
  
When he finds himself with a pint sitting in front of his nose though, Harry opposite him and watching him carefully, Ron doesn’t mind too much.  
  
“So, what is going on?” Ron waits for Harry to keep talking, make a remark about Draco or suggest he breaks up with him. That is usually what Harry does when talking about their relationship, snide comments never quite enough to be outright rude but clear in his disapproval.  
  
But Harry doesn’t say anything, waiting for Ron to answer.  
  
“Do you really want to know? I thought this would be a wretched, both drinking in silence and brooding kind of thing.” Harry gives him a look like he thinks Ron is particularly stupid today; a gentle kind of exasperation, fond.  
  
“Yes, Ron, I really do want to know what has you all miserable. You are my friend, and I might not like the git but even I can admit that he makes you happy. Unless you would prefer brooding in silence?” No, he wouldn’t and Harry knows it too. Brooding in silence never solves anything, and slumped over a bar it doesn’t even have that dramatic flair.  
  
“I’m not that miserable.” He is, he absolutely is. He doesn’t know what to feel, who is at fault here, how to go about fixing it.  
  
“You look like something Crookshanks got his claws on.” Harry smirks as he says it, but he is no less serious for it. Ron does look bad then. Crookshanks can be shockingly vicious in his hunting, dragging in mangled corpses in bloodied claws and receiving approving patting from Hermione. Apparently it’s a sign of affection and healthy and Ron is just squeamish. Whether that is true or not, Ron doesn’t appreciate the comparison.  
  
“Draco is cheating on me.” Harry chokes on his drink, coughing and spluttering. Whatever he might think of Draco, he didn’t expect that. Maybe this is where he tells him to break up and find someone better.  
  
It’s odd, saying it out loud, a statement instead of a suspicion. When did that happen?  
  
“That is a rather grave accusation. Are you sure about that?” Ron frowns at him. Harry might be willing to look past his preconceived grudges for the moment, but this is not what he wanted to hear. He just told Harry, his best friend, that his boyfriend is cheating on him, betraying him, going behind his back and lying to him. And Harry’s response is to doubt Ron’s judgment?  
  
He was supposed to be on his side without even hesitating, offer to beat Draco up or curse him with some nasty hexes. Instead he sits here, basically telling Ron he is the one in the wrong!  
  
“Of course I am sure! Do you think I walk around, making assumptions like that?” Harry is not impressed with his outburst at all, considering him over the rim of his glass.  
  
“Well, may I remind you —” Ron doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t need any more of his flaws pointed out, least of all by Harry. He doesn’t want to hear how he judges too fast, how this is at least partly his fault, how he needs to take a step back.  
  
“No you may not! He is staying away long stretches at a time, keeping secrets from me, constantly absent-minded, and denying all of this! What other explanation could there be?” Ron watches Harry’s face grow grimmer with every word, vindication replacing the hurt.  
  
“He practically threw it right in my face, that I’m not living up to what he thinks he deserves, listed all the points I’m lacking in. Did you know he doesn’t like my freckles? I always thought he liked them.” That one actually hurt more than he thought it would. It's rather ridiculous to be hung up over such a relatively small thing. But Draco said he liked them, could spend hours tracing them, comparing them to stars and other nonsensical things that made Ron smile nonetheless.  
  
If Draco lied about that, what else did he lie about?  
  
And that was among the more innocuous things Draco spit out; venomous, every single one of them. Ron still hears him say that he should have picked Harry, that Ron was not who he wanted, not good enough. It stokes all those insecurities the war should have fixed, the fears of not measuring up, of being a disappointment. Draco knew what it would do to Ron when he said it, probably the whole reason he said it.  
  
“I’m going to hex that bastard until he wishes he never left that pretentious manor of his, going to break his stupid face.” This is what Ron wanted, more or less. Harry is furious, understanding what he is feeling and making it easy for him. Harry has a tendency to do that, put the world into a simpler picture of right and wrong. Ron lets it wash over him, listens to Harry’s angry tirade and feels the words seep in.  
  
Harry says all the things Ron doesn’t quite dare say himself.  
  
That he should have known better than to trust Draco.  
  
That people apparently don’t change after all.  
  
That Draco lied to him, everything a lie. Every feeling, every smile, every touch — none of it was real.  
  
That Draco has to pay. That Ron has to show him he chose the wrong man to toy with.  
  
That he has to make him regret.

* * *

MacDonald hides his nervous excitement surprisingly well, talking a mile a minute, most of it compliments, but at least not jumping up and down to get rid of excessive energy. Better than Ron expected, still annoying enough to dampen his own excitement at the plan. It’s a good plan, Ron spent the entire night on Harry’s uncomfortable couch, filling the details into perfection. Seeing it ruined by an overeager puppy rankles. Maybe MacDonald wasn’t the best choice after all.  
  
Ron casts another look at him, takes in the well-cut but aggressively tight clothes, the sparkling eyes that tend to focus on Ron’s mouth when he speaks, the tousled hair that constantly looks like he has just been shagged. Together, and with a little input from Ron, it will look like Ron is the one who just shagged him. It’s perfect.  
  
“Thank you so much for this dinner invitation! I knew it was only a matter of time, with all this chemistry between us. I'm looking forward to spending more time with you!” Ron somehow manages to turn his groan into a cough at the last second, prompting MacDonald to slap him on the back and look concerned. Perfect, Ron reminds himself, forcing a smile and not pushing him away as he wants to.  
  
Ron didn’t have the heart to tell MacDonald he is nothing more than a prop to show his cheating boyfriend what it feels like. Ron should have thought of something better than wanting to get to know him. This will be as much torture for him as it will be for Draco.  
  
Although, maybe he can get rid of MacDonald when it turns out there is an angry Draco instead of dinner waiting for him. Maybe Draco will throw him out when he comes to all the wrong conclusions Ron deliberately leads him to.  
  
Put like that, his plan is rather cruel.  
  
Then again, so is actually cheating and thinking him too dumb to notice.  
  
Yes, Draco deserves much worse this. Before he changes his mind, Ron opens the door for MacDonald.  
  
“You don’t even know how happy I am that you agreed.” MacDonald doesn’t catch his meaning, smiling brightly and brushing far closer than necessary when walking past him.  
  
“Is something burning?” Odd comment, Ron is about to laugh it off as a joke, a weird come-on perhaps, when he smells it too. Something is definitely burning.  
  
He shoves MacDonald out of the way, senses on high alert and all plans forgotten. Draco is in here somewhere.  
  
It doesn’t matter that they fought, doesn’t matter that just minutes ago he wanted to fool him. Draco might need his help, might be hurt — the rest is irrelevant.  
  
Ron is fully prepared to rescue Draco from the flaming wreckage of their kitchen, to carry him out of here if necessary, but he is not prepared for what he finds.  
  
Against all expectations, the kitchen isn’t actually burning. There is, however, food cooking, boiling and simmering and smelling awful. Draco is perfectly fine, flitting around between the pots and pans, cursing a blue streak like he rarely ever allows himself (he calls it improper, looking offended but never stopping Ron when he curses).  
  
Relief washes over him; Draco is alright. He isn’t suffering, it isn’t burning and Draco is fine.  
  
The rest doesn’t seem important anymore, not as important as Draco safe and sound in his arms.  
  
“Everything alright in here?” Draco whirls around at the sound of MacDonald, wand raised and everything in the kitchen coming to a stop, waiting for his command.  
  
MacDonald either doesn’t notice the tension or blithely ignores it, stepping past Ron and stretching his hand out for Draco to shake. “MacDonald, but everyone calls me Donnie, nice to meet you! How do you know my Ron?”  
  
Draco’s face, sneering at the introduction, goes to murderous at the casual claim of possession. Ron feels a little murderous himself. He isn’t MacDonald’s anything, but seeing Draco sneer after knowing nothing about this man, judging him and finding him wanting, it rubs him the wrong way. It reminds him of how much Draco apparently is still the boy Ron hated, the bully and coward Ron thought he had overcome.  
  
Every urge he had to pull Draco into his arms and make sure that he is alright is vanished, just like that. It’s almost scary, how fast Ron goes from loving Draco to feeling like he doesn’t even know him.  
  
“Ron, I didn’t know you would be home this early.” His voice is pleasant enough, smooth without any edges, his face blank. There is danger lurking though, anger pooling not deep beneath the surface.  
  
He completely ignores MacDonald, talking solely to Ron. How incredibly rude.  
  
“How lucky then, that you cooked something anyway. Expecting guests?” Draco doesn’t answer him, which is basically a confession. Too bad Ron ruined his plans.  
  
“I wasn’t expecting anyone, no.” Ron gives him a bright smile. He doesn’t believe it. Why else would Draco be cooking, after all?  
  
“Where do you keep your plates?” MacDonald’s forcefully cheery voice breaks the silence, reminding them both that he is still there. Reminds Ron that he actually had a plan here, before Draco — as usual, now that he thinks about it— strolled in and distracted him.  
  
Finally looking away from Draco, Ron finds MacDonald already eagerly opening cabinets, using his quest for plates as an excuse to snoop. Right, Ron has to be more careful with that one. Draco, equally affronted at the display, subtly moves his wand to slam the doors shut in MacDonald’s face, nearly taking off a finger in the process. Ron quickly turns away, before Draco sees the smile he can’t suppress.  
  
Hoping to occupy MacDonald enough to prevent further intrusions in his life, Ron shoves all kinds of plates, glasses, and cutlery at him. The poor bloke is struggling to keep it all up in the air, surely more than they could need for a simple meal, but he should have just been patient, known better. He better not break anything, some of these are probably some weird Malfoy-Family-Heirlooms, Draco can be peculiar about those.  
  
“The table is right through there, go ahead and set things down and I will be right there. Careful not to drop anything!” With an encouraging smile, Ron pushes him out of the room, gently nudges a delicate-looking teacup after him, and closes the door.  
  
“If you had told me I would be meeting your fan club today, I would have dressed up.” Draco clearly has been wanting to say that for a while, barely waiting a second after MacDonald left. He is visibly proud of it too, nasty smirk on his face as he studies Ron for a reaction. Well, he won’t get one. Ron doesn’t plan on giving him the satisfaction of showing his hurt. Draco knows him well enough anyway, he already knows it stings.  
  
Not knowing what to answer, Ron does the only thing that is likely to hurt Draco in return and ignores him.  
  
The food looks about done, a little too done maybe, but all in all the timing is surprisingly well. Draco’s guest must be arriving soon then, maybe Ron should give him a moment to warn him of his unexpected presence and tell him — Ron is pulled away from the food, Draco dragging him towards the door.  
  
“Don’t touch my food. Go and entertain your puppy before he opens any more drawers that are none of his business and loses some of those curious fingers after all.” Ron’s protest dies on his tongue at the image of MacDonald finding their photo albums, rifling through them and prying on memories not meant for him.  
  
Thankfully, MacDonald is doing nothing of the sort, too engrossed in awe at some of the patterns the plates have. Who knew he would be that easily entertained? Ron personally never liked those plates, is pretty sure Draco doesn’t like them either, but they belonged to some great-great-uncle, which obviously means they have to keep them. Maybe, if Ron were to startle MacDonald enough he would let the plate fall, which would then unfortunately break into a million splitters. Irreparable. Best to throw the whole set away.  
  
Sadly, MacDonald turns around before Ron can scare him into smashing the plate.  
  
“Ron! I wasn’t sure if your roommate wants to eat with us, so I didn’t set out a plate for him.” Despite his first instinct, Ron doesn’t point out that Draco is a little more than his roommate, his boyfriend to be exact. He doesn’t know how that would affect his behaviour, but what he is doing so far, annoying and intrusive as it is, is doing just what Ron hoped it would.  
  
He also, decidedly, doesn’t dwell on the possibility of Draco leaving and Ron being forced to eat with MacDonald alone. He quickly sets out a place for Draco as well, ignoring the scowl and the disappointed noise.  
  
The disappointment doesn’t hold long. Ron is barely done when MacDonald is back already, leaning too close to him and looking up at him with wide eyes. This is becoming more and more of a burden, maybe Ron really shouldn’t have invited the guy, no matter how perfectly mad he drives Draco. MacDonald has been painfully infatuated since the very first moment, neither accepting subtle hints nor straight-up rejection. Ron really didn’t think it could get any worse. This is definitely worse.  
  
Time to do some damage control. “Listen, MacDonald, we both know —”  
  
“Terribly sorry to interrupt.” Draco is not sorry at all, setting the food down in the loudest way possible. Ron is rather grateful for the interruption, he does not want to have this talk again. Although, MacDonald doesn’t seem to get that, still standing close and looking up at him, expecting him to go on. That is not going to happen, not with Draco — Draco glares at them. That is when Ron realises what they must look like, standing intimately close, conversation suspiciously and abruptly over as soon as Draco entered the room.  
  
So, instead of brusquely taking back his space, Ron gives MacDonald an apologetic smile and gently moves away.  
  
Draco is still glaring, though at the food this time. His jaw is clenched, keeping his reaction in though only just barely, his entire posture rigid. Good. Let him suffer, let him have a taste of his own medicine.  
  
“The food looks really good. Thank you for cooking for us.” Draco ignores MacDonald, still pretending he isn’t here. While that means the plan is working, it could work better if Ron forced Draco to acknowledge the situation.  
  
“Draco, would you stop ignoring my guest? Limit yourself to one-word replies if you must, if you think that would help.” Draco keeps glaring, stabbing his vegetables and now apparently ignoring both of them. Alright then, if that is how Draco wants to do this. Ron has an entire dinner to make it as hard as possible for him.  
  
It doesn’t take more than one bite to realise the food is terrible. It’s burned, too much salt, the consistency off. It’s atrocious. Whatever poor guest Draco planned on serving this, Ron rather thinks they saved him from having to politely try and compliment this catastrophe. Thankfully, he doesn’t have nice.  
  
“This is awful, did you even use a recipe or did you just throw in whatever you could find?” That might have been too much, fighting or not. Draco flinches, more reaction than Ron expected, before he retreats behind his walls of ice again, clenching the fork a little tighter.  
  
“You would know, wouldn’t you. Considering how much of a … passion food is for you.” On second thought, Ron doesn’t feel bad about it anymore. Apparently all is fair game, even deep-rooted insecurities about eating too much.  
  
It’s funny, it feels like just yesterday Draco would have ripped apart anyone who dared say something like this to Ron, fully aware of what it would do to him. And how fortunate, that Draco can say exactly the right words to crack Ron apart and still remain dinner appropriate.  
  
MacDonald, the entire situation going completely over his head, is only all too eager to agree with Draco, somehow managing to turn it into a compliment. “You never told me you had such an interest in food! Do you cook as well?”  
  
Ron idly wonders if he truly doesn’t get it or if he is just trying to help Ron in some way. Whatever the case, he wishes MacDonald would stop. This got uglier than he planned, quicker than he thought too.  
  
“Well, someone has to.” MacDonald, of course, doesn’t understand that either, but Draco does, pursing his lips and finally looking away. It feels like a victory. A hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless.  
  
Ron didn’t know that Draco was this sensitive about his lack of cooking ability. He never seemed bothered before, laughing it off and arranging the oddest deals with him to get Ron to cook all the meals. One time, Draco promised him to wear this thing for him, with —  
  
MacDonald is choking on his food. Actually, coughing and grabbing his throat choking. Draco watches on dispassionately. Wonderful.  
  
Ron is sure there is a charm for situations like this, but he has low-key been wanting to punch MacDonald all evening. There won’t be a better opportunity than this.  
  
Ron brings his hand down hard on his back, once, twice, thrice, as MacDonald coughs on. He finally chokes up something Ron tries hard not to look at, casting a charm to vanish it before they all throw up.  
  
Draco eats on, as if the whole thing doesn’t concern him. As if it isn’t his food that almost killed the man. Draco doesn’t even care.  
  
“You could at least pretend to care what happens to our guests.” This has gone too far, he didn’t think Draco would behave this horrible. Ron tries to convince himself that Draco wouldn't have let him die, that he has some decency at least. But it’s no use, he keeps hearing MacDonald gasps for help, keeps seeing Draco’s impassive face.  
  
“He isn’t my guest! You dragged him here, drooling all over you and looking like he would jump out of the window if you told him — it’s not my responsibility to take care of your pets.” Draco hasn't raised his voice during his entire speech, but the atmosphere feels like he screamed the room down. His composure is slipping, control escaping him. Draco is strained, muscles tensed, close to bursting.  
  
Ron wants to break him. He wants to tip him over, crack him open and see who he is inside. If the last days were a facade, old habits he wears like armour, or if the months of dating, the laughter and the kisses, Draco, is the mask.  
  
MacDonald laughs suddenly, high and uneasy, breaking the moment yet again. Ron wishes he’d let him choke.  
  
He is finally seeing something else, fractures in the ice, signs of the person he thought he knew. Ron can’t stop pushing now.  
  
“I think you should apologise to my friend.” Everything stills. Ron can feel his heart beat, can hear it thrumming and echoing in his rib cage. He forces his breath to remain even, his fingers to lay still, his eyes to fix on Draco, to capture and hold him.  
  
As a general rule, Draco doesn’t apologise. Malfoys don't apologise. He was taught that to apologise means to admit defeat, to give up. Which is nonsense, of course, but old Lucius did a thorough job of convincing his son otherwise. Draco has gotten better at it, had to after the war, learnt to admit to his mistakes and face them. The apologies are often silent though, agreeing to a restaurant he hates for Ron’s sake, accompanying him to friendly competitive Quidditch matches with his friends that he prefers to stay far away from — it’s usually all the apology Ron needs, more treasure than empty words.  
  
But this isn’t about an apology. This is about making him snap.  
  
Ron waits. He watches Draco carefully, every movement, every twitch. It’s only a matter of —  
  
Draco stands. Ron smirks at him. About time.  
  
There is a completely new energy about him, anger spilling out of the cracks and swapping over the room in waves. It stokes Ron's own irritation, scratches at the hurt in him, makes him want to stand as well, face Draco head-on.  
  
Ron doesn’t move an inch. It’s Draco’s turn.  
  
Draco doesn’t move for long enough that Ron considers prodding him again, tension high in the air and needing to be released. But Draco moves on his own, raising his glass and giving Ron a sugary sweet smile. Finally.  
  
Draco doesn’t even bother trying to conceal his true intentions, pouring the entirety of his drink down onto MacDonald’s head without batting an eye. He also, rather pointedly, doesn’t apologise.  
  
MacDonald laughs again, more desperate this time, like he doesn’t know what else to do. It breaks the silence, if not the tension.  
  
“I better go wash my hair, probably should have someone wash the clothes as well, this is uncomfortably sticky. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr …” He flounders here, an awkward pause in an awkward speech, his eyes flitting over the room as if Draco would have signed the wall. Not finding anything of use, MacDonald tries to go on as if nothing has happened. “I hope I wasn’t too much of a burden to you. The food was really quite good!”  
  
Draco and Ron both glare at him (the first thing they did together in ages – what an absurd thought to have) and he is out of the door as fast as if he had disapparated. Who knows, maybe he did, that desperate to be anywhere but here. It doesn’t matter. As long as MacDonald is gone (and hopefully stays away too) Ron doesn’t care about the details.  
  
The door slams closed after MacDonald. Draco grabs the table tightly, knuckles white and arms shaking. Ron was so sure Draco would break the second they were alone. No matter, it doesn’t take much more.  
  
“He lied about the food. It’s inedible. You really should stay away from the kitchen.” Something shifts in the air, Draco’s magic breaking free from the tight control he forced it under, surrounding Ron in a turbulent mix of fury, bile, hurt, regret — too many to recognise in the short moment Ron has to savour the heady feeling.  
  
“Leave then! If you hate it so much here! Go and whistle your lapdog back, I’m sure he is a great cook! I tried, I tried so hard, this is the best I can do.” All anger, just seconds ago ready to rip Ron into shreds, now bleed out into his words and gone without a trace. Draco looks exhausted, frail, leaning against the wall, eyes closed as he heaves for breath. Actually — are those sobs?  
  
Nothing puts things in perspective quite as effective and terrifying as seeing someone you love cry, knowing it’s your fault. There is no way Ron can leave him alone like this.  
  
Right now, it doesn’t matter that Draco is a cheating bastard, that he lied and spat on his heart, that Ron worked hard to get him to exactly this point. He loves Draco. It’s as simple as that. He loves Draco, and Draco needs him, so Ron will be there.  
  
Draco latches onto him the moment he is in reach, hands twisting into his shirt and face hidden in his neck, pressing as close as possible into him. Ron doesn’t think before he brings his arms up around Draco, holding him tightly and stroking over his back. Merlin, but he missed Draco. Ron didn’t notice how much until he holds him in his arms again.  
  
The only thing disturbing their peace are Draco’s sobs, wrecking his body and undeniable. Ron never liked seeing people cry, unsure what to do and feeling useless, but caring for Draco is almost scarily easy. He buries his face in Draco’s hair, inhales his shampoo, drowns his every sense in Draco. He feels his spine under his hand, his neck oddly intimate where he holds it, can hear Draco’s hitched breath and the noises he muffles against his skin, closes his eyes against the outside world to focus just on this, on Draco.  
  
They can deal with the world later.

* * *

Draco feels good in his arms, a familiar weight on him, strands of silky hair slipping through his fingers, finally a moment with nothing to do but laying here, resting. Ron missed him, missed this, missed them.  
  
In their silent bubble of peace, Ron feels like he sees things clearly for the first time in a long while. Removed from his own hurt, from the anger and frustration and the insecurity, just looking at how they treated each other the last few days, without looking for reasons and apologies, he doesn’t like what he sees at all. They might both have had their reasons, some more justified than others, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. It brought them here, to Draco breaking down into tears in their kitchen. Ron brought him there. He doesn’t remember how he could think he wanted that.  
  
“How did we screw up so badly?” Ron doesn’t expect an answer, doesn’t think Draco is quite ready to talk again, still putting himself back together. But he does get an answer, Draco stiffening above him, the peace around them beginning to totter.  
  
“Do you think it might have something to do with how you brought your lover over for dinner?” Draco’s words are dripping in venom, he has clearly not forgiven Ron for that yet. Not that Ron thought he would have, Draco can hold a grudge like no other and even though it might feel like more, they have only been lying here for an hour at most.  
  
Draco is also totally right in resenting him for that particular move. Ron kind of resents himself, as well. It was stupid, not thought out at all and crudely executed. It hurt Draco more than he wanted to (no matter what he thought at that moment, hurting Draco is the last thing he wants to do). Even drenched in hostility, the hurt is clear as day in his voice. Draco is usually better at hiding it. To think that just a few moments earlier Ron felt proud at making him break — now he just feels ashamed; sick and ashamed.  
  
“It wasn’t real.” The confession is out before Ron knows it, falling from his mouth and onto deaf ears. “I don’t even know the bloke; I Just brought him to make you jealous, to make you think … well, to make you think I was cheating on you.”  
  
Draco doesn’t say anything, still unresponsive, his body heavy on Ron’s chest, pressing out all the air. Draco doesn’t believe him. Of course he doesn’t; it sounds like a weak excuse to his own ears, despite knowing the truth of it.  
  
“I just wanted to hurt you, to make you see what it feels like and — I’m sorry. That’s what I’m trying to say. I’m so sorry, for hurting you, lying to you, making this entire situation ten times worse.” No answer.  
  
“Draco, please—” All it takes is one look to silence him. He has been trained well (an absurd thought, though true enough; Ron is attuned to every tiny alterations on Draco’s face).  
  
“So you claim that you have no feelings at all for the man who is obviously infatuated with you, only insinuated there is a long-standing relationship just because … because of what? You made it sound like this is somehow my fault.” Draco accepted that surprisingly quickly, a healthy dose of suspicion in his tone, sure but — Ron’s thoughts screech to a stop.  
  
Is Draco seriously going to pretend he didn’t do anything wrong, shove all the blame onto Ron and deny any involvement?  
  
There is a treacherous whisper creeping into his mind, how it would fit perfectly into Draco’s story, the best reason he is likely to get to break up with him and be with whoever it is he spent so much time with. Ron doesn’t want to think Draco capable of that though. Draco wouldn’t, he might have shown his ugliest instincts these last days, but he wouldn’t.  
  
“You can stop trying to hide it from me; and don’t you dare try to deny it again. I’m not stupid enough that I haven’t noticed, so spare us both the act and just admit it.” Ron is rather proud of how his voice doesn’t shake, keeping all the hurt concealed under a layer of cool disgust.  
  
Draco visibly pales (it’s quite the feat, naturally pale as he is). Good, at least he has some decency left, enough to be ashamed. As he should be. Draco, after all, is the one who started messing up. Ron only reacted.  
  
“How did you — doesn’t matter; it’s completely beside the point. You can’t honestly be upset about that. That is the reason you have been avoiding me lately? Or is it that I didn’t tell you? Forgive me, for hoping to surprise you.” Draco is backing away, getting up to leave, and Ron stops him before he can even think about it, grabs him by his wrists and pulls him back down.  
  
How Draco can treat his infidelity like it’s no big deal, calling it a surprise for him — and what a surprise it was.  
  
“Are you seriously — you have no right to tell me how I’m supposed to feel! I think it’s more than justified to be hurt and angry after finding out that, not only is your boyfriend cheating on you, but he also thinks you are stupid enough not to notice! Of course I am upset! Did you expect me to —” It’s more of an instinctual reaction to shut up with Draco’s hand covering his mouth than that Ron is actually silenced. He could go on easily, has in fact only started to get into the swing of his betrayed-boyfriend-rant. But the look on Draco’s face stops him.  
  
He doesn’t look like a man confronted with his mistakes. Ron doesn’t know what he does look like, too many emotions flitting over his face, but it’s enough to make him hesitate.  
  
“Are you accusing me of cheating?” Draco's face smooths out in a matter of seconds, confusing emotions hidden beneath a precarious mask, voice cold and dangerous. The hand on his mouth feels much more like a threat now. (It’s a good thing Ron never shied away from the thrill of danger.)  
  
“I am. Are you?” Ron doesn’t know why he asks, maybe he wants to hear Draco admit to it (yes, he definitely needs a confession), maybe he still harbours some ill-fated hopes that the answer to that question is ‘no’.  
  
“A bit late to ask that, isn’t it? It seems you have already decided my guilt.” Draco laughs, humourless and broken. Ron doesn’t like the sound at all, a cruel mockery of a laugh he usually treasures. “That explains your friend at least.”  
  
“Let’s not talk about him right now, or ever again actually.” Bringing MacDonald was really not one of his better ideas, and there have been many — wait a second. None of what Draco said was a confirmation. In fact, it sounded like the opposite, even though he didn’t deny anything outright. “Are you saying you are not cheating on me?”  
  
“Of course I’m not! Why would I?” Draco has the nerve to be offended, as if he isn’t the one who behaved suspiciously, as if Ron is somehow overreacting by asking him to clarify.  
  
“How am I supposed to know? It was just … you were gone so often, and …” Ron trails off. There really isn't much hard evidence he can cite here, He just felt it. It seems ridiculous now. How could he ever think Draco being happy must be a sign for infidelity? Perhaps he is overreacting.  
  
“So obviously I must be meeting up with some strange man! I know you said something along these lines that day –“ For a moment hurt flashes up again and Draco trails off. That's alright, Ron doesn't need him to spell it out. He remembers all too well. He remembers a horrible day made worse, remembers Draco's cruel smirk and all the confirmation he needed at that moment.  
  
Ron really should have just stayed in bed that morning. They could have avoided this disaster.  
  
“It doesn't matter. I made a mistake in thinking you didn't actually doubt my fidelity. You are so sure I don't have the slightest bit of decency. Do you want to know what I have actually been doing?” He doesn’t wait for Ron’s meek nod before going on, spiting the truth out along with his rage and hurt. “I was visiting your mother to learn how to cook. You can ask her if you don’t believe me, since apparently I’m not trustworthy.”  
  
“You were learning how to cook? But you don’t care about food.” Yes, because that is the important part here. At least it’s safer than dragging out the wrongful accusations any longer. Draco’s scowl this time is more petulant then hurt.  
  
“But I love you — though it’s becoming harder and harder to remember why — and I would very much like to keep you.” Draco is blushing, looking away, as if he admitted something he didn't plan on ever saying out loud. Ron doesn’t get it. Sure, his heart always flutters and he still can’t stop from smiling every time he hears Draco tell him he loves him (loves him, Ron will never grow used to it, hopes he never does) and yes, Draco always does wear an adorable blush when he says it, but this is different.  
  
“That doesn’t make sense, Draco. Why would you need to cook for me to stay with you?” Ron thought the question rather innocent, pertinent as well. But Draco glares at him.  
  
“Are you really that blind or is it cruelty?” Ron can only blink at him. He doesn’t even know what they are talking about anymore. “Because I’m not good enough for you, and it’s only a matter of time before you realise it and leave me. I'm practically useless and we both know it. I thought, if I could offer you something, anything, you would stay a little longer. The best way to a man's heart is through his stomach; my mother used to tell me that, and I was desperate enough to believe her. I underestimated how atrocious a cook I am. I fear I might have poisoned you forever.”  
  
“The food wasn’t that bad.” That was not what Ron meant to say; of course it wasn’t. It’s just, this is a lot for him to process. He didn’t know Draco felt this way, this insecure and scared. Draco doesn’t give him time to figure out what he actually wanted to say, though.  
  
“That is all you got from my confession? I bare my soul to you and all you do is offer some half-hearted lies?” At least Draco doesn’t look like he is going to break apart again, held together by anger. Ron still has the urge to wrap him up in his arms and hold him tight, but it’s easier to control now, when the hurt is more hidden.  
  
“No! That is not, I mean — you haven't poisoned me. That is what I wanted to say. I love you, Draco, I’ll stay with you for as long as you’ll have me.” Better, not good enough though.  
  
Draco doesn’t believe him; doesn’t believe that Ron loves him, that he wants to spend the rest of his life with him, that he is worth loving. It breaks Ron’s heart.  
  
Even worse though, it's Ron’s job to make sure Draco knows these things, that he never doubts them. And yet here Draco is, not only doubting that he is loved (so, so much) but convinced that Ron is going to break up with him. It’s unacceptable.  
  
Ron needs to do better. He will tell Draco every day, every morning when he wakes up and every night before he goes to sleep, even when they are fighting or not sleeping in the same bed, until the words are deeply engraved into his heart, until Draco knows them for the truth they are.  
  
Actually, there is something better than words that he can do, something even Draco can’t twist around, eaten up by is own fears and demons.  
  
“Marry me.” The words are out before Ron can probably think about them. The wide-eyed look of surprise on Draco’s face is totally worth his own shock though.  
  
“Excuse me?” Draco goes from astonishment to indignation in a matter of seconds, eyes sparking in challenge. As if Ron needs the extra incentive.  
  
“I’m serious Draco, I want to marry you.” And he does, even if he couldn’t have put it in those words a few days earlier. The feeling is by no means new.  
  
It didn’t occur to him, that Draco might say no.  
  
It sounds incredibly arrogant, but Draco rejecting him simply wasn't an option in his mind. But Draco still hasn't said a word, not after Ron made it abundantly clear that he is not joking, not teasing, that he is actually asking Draco to marry him.  
  
Draco isn’t smiling anymore, face carefully blank as he considers Ron. Why couldn’t Ron just have gone along with it, laughed it off and buried the realisation somewhere deep in his mind, to be examined later?  
  
“You know, it’s customary to ask.” What? Draco is smiling again, smaller but no less sincere for it. That’s good, Ron has no idea what he means, but that’s good. That means he isn’t rejected yet.  
  
Draco looks at him in expectation, eyebrow raised and waiting while Ron is trying to catch up with the maelstrom of feelings, waiting for him to — oh, right.  
  
“Draco Malfoy, love of my life, light of my day, would you do me the great honour of marrying me?” It’s too much, the words cliche, not nearly enough, but Ron already screwed up anyway. What’s a little more?  
  
Another long silence, far too long really. Surely more than is necessary? Unless he … Draco is going to say no. That’s the only explanation; he would have already said yes if he wanted to.  
  
And that before, that wasn’t Draco teasing him, can’t have been. He was trying spare to them both the humiliation of having to outright reject Ron. How kind, if only Ron had gotten the hint. (He would have still asked, of course. It’s his stupid heart, beating widely and hoping against all reason, hoping.)  
  
To think that, not too long ago, Ron was so sure that Draco would agree, despite everything, because they love each other too much for it to matter, enough to marry and promise their lives to each other.  
  
He should probably be grateful, that Draco doesn’t just blurt his first thoughts of refusal but is considering them carefully, to do as little harm as he can (it will still be more than Ron can bear, he is sure). As torturous as the wait for the inevitable is, it’s less cruel in the end. Even better maybe, take back the offer and pretend it didn’t happen, silence the words before they are ever spoken.  
  
But Ron is incapable of moving, let alone speaking. All he can do is wait, for Draco to find his words, for his heart to be broken, to be abruptly robbed of things he holds dear as well as things he never even knew he wanted. So, Ron waits.  
  
Waiting is agony. Ron was wrong, this isn’t mercy at all. It is nothing but prolonged suffering.  
  
“Yes, I will.” Ron finally breaths again. It’s an odd relief, all hope finally dying — what did Draco say?  
  
“What?” Ron doesn’t have the capacity to care about how the question must sound to Draco. Thankfully, he doesn’t look offended.  
  
“Yes, Ronald Weasley, love of my life, light of my day, I will marry you.” The words sound neither overused nor insufficient when Draco says them, warm and sincere. They completely erase any doubt the silence inflicted upon Ron. Draco agreed to marry him, said yes. Ron can hardly believe how lucky he is, that this is actually, really happening.  
  
Just to make sure, he pulls Draco in for a kiss, holds him tight and clings to him. Draco doesn’t resist, sighs against his lips and presses closer. No, this is most definitely real, Draco’s hair tangled around his fingers, his weight grounding and anchoring him, everything else fading out of awareness and only Draco remaining.  
  
Ron only lets him go, reluctantly, when the need for oxygen becomes bigger than the need to keep kissing Draco (just barely though). He has every intention of going back to more worthwhile things than breathing as soon as he catches some air, when Draco’s expression steals his breath all over again. He is smirking, blush high on his cheeks, eyes dazed and pink lips smirking. That git — he did that on purpose, made Ron wait and think he would refuse him.  
  
Ron really should be more upset about this. But looking up at Draco, he realises it doesn’t matter how long he made him wait, he would have waited far longer for Draco. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you? Pretending you would say no.”  
  
Draco doesn’t posses the good grace to claim otherwise, smiling smugly and visibly proud. Merlin, Ron loved him. “I rather think you deserved it, don’t you? But yes, I do so love to make you squirm.”  
  
This is exactly the man Ron wants to marry — his fiance, Ron likes the sound of that — proud and mischievous, often still denying his softer sides but they’ll get there. They have all the time in the world.  
  
“I think we are past the point where you should have given me a ring by now.” Ron laughs, startled out of his sappy thoughts. Draco must know perfectly that Ron has no ring for him. Though, now that he mentions it, they really should remedy that.  
  
“You might be right there, usually it’s supposed to be presented with the question. Let’s go to that jewellery you like tomorrow and get you one.” Draco gives him a bright smile, clearly satisfied with the offer. It’s probably for the best, Ron would have been terrified of choosing wrong otherwise.  
  
“Do you want to go out for dinner, celebrate our engagement?” Ron doesn’t, but for Draco he would. Thankfully, Draco shakes his head no.  
  
“How about we stay in tonight, there is still dinner left.” Draco has either forgotten or is willfully ignoring his lacking cooking skills, but Ron is all too aware how very much he doesn’t want to eat more of what Draco cooked up there.  
  
He has a far better idea anyway. “We’ll have to start over from scratch because whatever you did there, love, I don’t think it’s salvageable.”  
  
Ron rather likes how Draco blushes at the endearment, every time, too flustered to be properly offended over Ron’s critique.  
  
“I’ll have you know that I slaved for hours in the kitchen so that—” Ron silences him with a kiss. Draco doesn’t object at all.


End file.
